


The Onin War

by Amikotsu



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disguise, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hatred, Historical, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Peace, Pre-Slash, Revenge, Self-Hatred, Some Humor, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amikotsu/pseuds/Amikotsu
Summary: He was a shugo, answering only to the shogunate. And he aspired to claim the title shogun for himself when he finally won the Onin War. With his gunbai, he would make all of the country bow to him. He'd wanted Izuna by his side, but that future they'd painted together had been ruined. Tobirama had taken the last beautiful thing in his life. War had already claimed his father and his other siblings. Without Izuna, he felt utterly alone.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara, Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Izuna & Uchiha Madara
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21
Collections: Naruto AU Week 2021





	The Onin War

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Historical Japan

The retreat from the damaged city took hours, and they were all dead on their feet. He'd lost a minor battle, but he'd lost more than land gained last summer and men he'd paid to join his ranks—he'd lost the last living member of his immediate family. He'd lost his younger brother, Izuna. He went home with a corpse and hundreds of tired, injured men, some peasants looking for money to pay taxes, some interested in making a name for themselves. As he looked down at his brother's face, he pretended that they were young again, that Izuna had simply exhausted himself. His imagination ran wild, but it couldn't ignore the large cut that had broken through armor and destroyed the man's gut. The fight had been an ugly one, easily the worst that year, and Madara had fallen apart when he saw his brother fall to the ground. Some of his men described his anguished cry as a call for vengeance. He'd taken the warlord Butsuma, the old man not entirely fit to lead the opposing Senju, but he'd wanted Tobirama, the one responsible for Izuna's death. He wouldn't rest until he had the man's head. The battles typically paused for winter, but Madara was furious, adopting the role of avenger so well that he swore the title existed just for him. 

He was a shugo, answering only to the shogunate. And he aspired to claim the title shogun for himself when he finally won the Onin War. With his gunbai, he would make all of the country bow to him. He'd wanted Izuna by his side, but that future they'd painted together had been ruined. Tobirama had taken the last beautiful thing in his life. War had already claimed his father and his other siblings. Without Izuna, he felt utterly alone. They'd fought together since they were in their teens, and the large-scale war had started when they were in their twenties. For ten years, they fought in the Onin War, and both sides had lost far more than they'd gained. His men called for peace and unity, while he called for blood, land, and wealth. Perhaps they'd chased the wrong things, but it was too late to back down. Fighting was all he knew. He was a child of war. 

Wives and children greeted the returning samurai. Some men swept their wives off their feet or hugged their children tightly to their chests, while ones like Madara went home alone. With Izuna's corpse draped over his horse, Madara got down and led the all-black stallion to his castle on the cliffside overlooking the Naka River. His steps were measured, fueled by the remnants of rage and raw hurt, but he held his head high and radiated confidence. He'd heard of a warlord from the southwest being murdered by his own men, so he knew not to show weakness. He had no woman to welcome him home, no children to cling to his legs. Some called him unlovable—he preferred being called driven or ambitious or any word paying homage to his desire for _more_.

Servants begged him to let them carry Izuna's corpse, but Madara refused. Bloody, one arm stiff and throbbing, he took Izuna from his horse and carried his little brother into the castle. They should have returned in triumph, both of them exchanging thrilling tales of their time on the battlefield, but only one remained. Madara traversed the empty rooms and hallways until he reached Izuna's bedroom. He lay the man down on a waiting futon and arranged Izuna's hands so they clasped over the man's stomach. He could pretend his brother was asleep. 

"You've been here for hours, Madara-sama."

"And I'll be here for hours more."

"At least eat something. Have something to drink."

"Is my brother having anything? Will he eat and drink with me? Leave me, before you join him in the afterlife."

Madara turned his head to glare at the servant and the woman quickly turned and hurried from the room. Were he someone else, he might have regretted his harsh words. He looked down at his brother's stiff body and reached out to touch Izuna's cool cheek. He'd been too late, too slow, too incapable. His shortcomings were to blame. As he shifted, he gritted his teeth at the pain in his left thigh, where one of Hashirama's arrows had pierced him. He'd cut the shaft but the tip of the arrow remained. He needed medical attention, a decent meal, and numbing sake, but he hesitated to leave his brother's side. When the bedroom door slid open again, he prepared to yell at the servant, but his cousin greeted him with a grim expression. He'd traveled from the northern part of the province, where winter dropped too much snow.

"How long have you been here?" Madara turned away, eyes returning to Izuna's form. Hikaku hummed, so he frowned. "What kind of an answer is that?" He threw a glare at his cousin and the man slowly approached to stand beside him. 

"Since before dark. I was here when you scared your servant away. Don't you think it's time to let them prepare a funeral pyre?" Madara remained silent, so Hikaku placed a hand on his sore shoulder. Hissing in pain, Madara pulled away and shot the man another withering glare. "Let's go. You need medical attention and something warm on your stomach. I'll handle the funeral preparations."

"Don't expect my thanks."

"Of course not, Madara."

The beef tongue was warm and the rice porridge steaming, but the meal tasted bland and could have been ice cold, for all he cared. He sat at the long table alone, his sake cup refilled whenever he reached the bottom. He handled his sake well, unlike Izuna. When drunk, Izuna was handsy with the female servants; in Madara's case, he wanted to spar. Already, he felt the absence. There wasn't enough sake to dull the ache, so he gave up and had plum wine instead. The sake wasn't the finest quality, but he could appreciate the taste of plums. Hikaku hadn't joined him, not that he blamed the man. Hikaku had much to do. The Uchiha province was the largest in the country and Madara assigned those he trusted to look after different portions of his land. Hikaku couldn't afford to stay near Konoha with him. He would grow accustomed to loneliness. That was his future endeavor.

Pleasantly warm, the alcohol bringing a lovely flush to his cheeks, he looked out across the dining table at the paintings of his ancestors. There was a spot for Izuna, just as there was a spot for him, when he finally died. With no heir, he'd already promised control of the province to Hikaku. 

"Madara-sama." Madara ignored the young servant boy and continued admiring the paintings, trying to recall buried conversations with his grandfather and his father. "Madara-sama, you have a visitor." Again, he ignored the trembling boy. "I'll ask him to leave. Forgive me."

"Hell, you moron, bring the guest to me. Do I look inconvenienced? Bring another cup. I have plenty of wine. I can only drink so much myself." Madara gave the bottle of wine a shake and the servant nodded and bowed until he found the perfect opportunity to flee. Madara snorted at his behavior, mumbling to himself that he needed better help. When the servant returned, he brought what looked like an ordinary beggar. “ _This_ is who you bring me? This _serf_? And you, showing your face here,” Madara continued, the rest of his words lost.

He recognized the face underneath the dirty appearance and his temper flared. He ignored the servant leaving and a second servant bringing in another cup for wine. He maintained eye contact with Hashirama until the man slowly made his way to the table and sat down to Madara’s right. Instead of lashing out, Madara tightened his grip around his cup and polished off another cup of wine. Hashirama helped himself to a cup, though he wrinkled his nose at the fact that it was plum. Madara said nothing. They drank in silence, one fuming and the other surprisingly calm. Hours before, Madara had killed the man’s father, and yet there they were, sharing wine. He wondered if Hashirama had come to assassinate him, as he’d once hired a man named Kakuzu to assassinate Hashirama. Hashirama carried no obvious weapons and seemed entirely too relaxed to be in his presence. His eyes roamed the dirty attire the man wore, the clothing in shades of brown. He wore none of the bright colors or the symbol associated with his clan. Hashirama looked utterly ridiculous, pathetic at best.

“So you’ve come to kill me? Why not send your albino brother? Has he sated his thirst for Uchiha blood now, or was my younger brother not enough?” Madara scowled at Hashirama and the man flinched. Hashirama had been the most forgiving of the Senju clan. Madara had once heard that the man wasn’t one for war, and yet he graced every battlefield with his presence, just like Madara. They were all child warriors. 

“What happened today was a tragedy.”

“I’m sorry your father blocked the killing blow meant for your last remaining brother. _That_ was a tragedy.”

“If you’d killed Tobirama, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now, and neither would you. I’m here seeking peace. It’s been ten years, Madara. Isn’t it enough? The capital is destroyed. The homes and buildings are nothing but ash. We lose more men every day. Younger and younger fight in this war. I’m tired.”

“You’re here because your stamina is waning? You sound like an old toad. If Konoha had to burn for my clan to claim the land, then that’s the cost. Ten years or twenty years or a thousand years. We are shugo. Around us, territories fight for the same reasons, some of them sending men to support our cause. One side will win, Hashirama.”

Hashirama frowned, brows drawn together until a crease formed. Madara poured himself another cup of wine, since the servants had fled. With the alcohol in his system, he felt both calm and agitated, and he didn’t like the combination. Hashirama took another drink of the plum wine, seemingly contemplating his words. Madara had once felt the same way. They’d met as children, both of them escaping families to move freely in the neutral capital of Konoha, but that had been years ago. They were men. And he wondered if he would see the war won in his lifetime, or if Hikaku would continue where he left off. They were men, and they weren’t getting any younger. Somewhere, Izuna waited for the funeral pyre. That thought stayed with him much longer than thoughts of peace. He craved vengeance, but what had vengeance gotten them? Nothing. Year after year, more of the same. His greed kept him functioning, and with that came his thirst for vengeance. The lives of those serving under him mattered little.

“I want Tobirama’s life, and I will cease the war for Konoha. That’s my demand. His life for your peace.”

“I ask that you accept my life instead.”

“ _Your_ life? Did you strike down Izuna?”

Madara lowered the cup from his lips, his desire to drink suddenly forgotten. At first, he thought that the man was joking, but the serious expression on Hashirama’s face spoke of truth. Madara could imagine himself giving his own life to save Izuna’s life; he’d wished that he’d had the opportunity that very day. Had Butsuma still been alive, Madara would have never received Hashirama. Butsuma was very different from his children, even though Madara still saw the ruthlessness in Tobirama’s eyes. Red, as if he lived on the blood of his victims. Hashirama hadn’t moved. He expected a response, and Madara didn’t have one. An end without victory became a loss for both of them. His people were tired of war though. He looked farther and farther away to find men willing to fight for shrinking payments and tax forgiveness. The war destroyed the land, making it impossible to grow crops and tend animals. In the end, the winner would have the ruins of the great capital city and mountains of corpses. And Madara still wanted blood.

“We had a good friendship once,” Hashirama spoke again, brown eyes focused on the wine in his cup. “Where have those days gone?” Madara sneered at him, but he missed the expression, carrying on as if nothing had happened. “Today, I offer you peace. I ask you to take it.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is more of the same.”

“You paraded as a peasant to seek my time,” Madara finally replied, choosing the words carefully. Hashirama gave a firm nod, as if his poor attire wasn’t enough of an answer. “I won’t accept your life, Hashirama. Come to me again tomorrow, when tomorrow is more of the same, and present the same offer in front of your men.” Madara expected him to refuse, hoped that he would refuse, because asking for peace on the battlefield was an embarrassment, no better than begging for mercy. Instead of refusing, Hashirama closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded again. “You can’t be serious, Hashirama,” Madara laughed.

“I’m very serious, Madara. If that’s what it takes to end this war, then I’ll do it,” Hashirama shrugged, placing his cup back on the low table. Madara frowned and tried to see signs of deceit in Hashirama’s expression, but he saw sincerity. Hashirama had proven himself a better man. He was the type of leader that men would willingly follow. Madara had once heard that the Senju paid nothing for the men on the battlefield, that they went forward with pride. “You aren’t as heartless as you like to think you are, and you are not unlovable by any means. I came here because I know these things. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m not my father, nor his father. I will be the one to end things.”

“And me? Should I be the one to end things as well?” Madara didn’t expect an answer, so he sighed. He’d had too much alcohol and he suddenly felt too hot, which only fueled his agitation. One look at Hashirama had him grumpy. Was there really a choice in the matter? Not really. “Get out of my house.”

“Madara?”

“You heard me. Take your peasant garbs and get out.”

“But!”

“Try showing up as yourself tomorrow. I might entertain the thought of peace. I’m tired. Get lost, Hashirama.”

Hashirama opened his mouth to argue, but Madara had already called two of his men into the room to remove Hashirama. They grasped the man by his upper arms and physically dragged him from the room, even as he protested and asked for more time. Madara smirked at him and waved until Hashirama was entirely out of sight. Looking at the empty dishes from his meal, Madara plucked the bottle of wine from the table and headed in the direction of Hikaku’s room. There was a funeral they needed to attend to, and more than that, there was peace to discuss.


End file.
